


Rise and Demise

by roonerspism



Category: Flight of the Conchords (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:25:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roonerspism/pseuds/roonerspism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bret and Jemaine are happy back in New Zealand, shepherding and playing music for no one in particular. Until, that is, they hear something surprising on the radio. It is surprising enough to kick them back into action, so they head back to New York for another crack at the big time. And just maybe things will work out this time around.</p><p>Then again, maybe they won't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise and Demise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> As this was written for the yuletide exchange, I decided to do something a little fun. I purused my giftee's profile page on LJ, and took note of their favourite fandoms. Then I tried to reference as many of them as I could in this fic. So be prepared for subtle and not-so-subtle references to Community, Mad Men, The X-Files and Breaking Bad, as well as a nod to the Doctor Who fandom (which was just to amuse myself).

“Terrence, come!”

“I don’t think he’s going to come, Bret.”

“Why not?”

Jemaine shrugged. “Because he’s a sheep?”

Looking indignant, Bret said, “I think it’s because he can’t hear me.”

“… Yeah,” Jemaine agreed hesitantly, “it’s because he can’t hear you. But probably also because he’s a sheep.”

Five months after being deported from America, and Bret and Jemaine had settled back into life as shepherds quite well. They spent their days out in the paddocks, herding their flock and playing music for what seemed to be their only appreciative audience - nature, and each other. There were times, of course, when they missed American life. Dave, the various women they would meet, occasionally even Mel. And then there was Murray. Murray who had returned to New Zealand with them, but was soon called back to New York to work at the consulate once again. Apparently, as Murray had told them, nobody else wanted the job. So they missed him too. But mostly, life was good.

“I wrote a new song,” Bret said. “Do you want to hear it?”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about Terrence.”

Jemaine stared at Bret for a moment, before shrugging again. “Yeah, okay.”

As Bret started to play, though, Jemaine heard something on their portable radio that he felt was more deserving of his attention. While Bret strummed away on his guitar, vocals concerning a man’s favourite sheep mingling with the chords, Jemaine turned up the volume on the radio, drowning Bret out.

“Hey, man, what -” Bret protested, but fell silent quickly when he too heard what was playing on the radio.

It was a song. A song that sounded very familiar. One of _their_ songs. Only it wasn’t them singing it.

They listened until the end of the track, when the DJ then announced, “That was ‘Rock the Party’ by up and coming superstars Like of the Conchords! This dynamic duo have already found fame both in Australia and here in New Zealand, and have just travelled to America where they have already been making waves. The future certainly looks bright for these two. Now, our next song-”

Jemaine switched off the radio.

“Umm,” said Bret.

“That wasn’t us, was it?” said Jemaine.

“I think it was a cover band.”

“Someone’s covering our songs?”

Bret nodded. “I guess.”

“But the DJ said they were already famous here and in Australia.”

“I know,” Bret replied.

Jemaine narrowed his eyebrows. “How’d they do that?”

“I don’t know man. I don’t know.”

The two of them sat quietly for a time, Bret plucking at the strings of his guitar, Jemaine pulling blades of grass out of the ground.

Eventually, Bret said, “Well this flipping sucks.”

Jemaine responded by grabbing a whole handful of grass and uprooting it.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Bret.

Throwing the handful of grass away, Jemaine studied Bret thoughtfully. Then his face lit up. “We should go to an open mic night and play a song. Like we used to. And we’ll make sure they introduce us as the original Like of the Conchords. Maybe then people will appreciate us more.”

Bret nodded along. “Good idea. Let’s do it tonight.” Then he added, “Come on Terrence! Come!”

Jemaine opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, one of the sheep looked up and trotted over towards them.

Bret smiled, patting the animal‘s head. “Good boy.”

*

Huddled backstage at their local pub, Bret tuned his guitar while Jemaine chugged down a bottle of spring water. There was very little space in the dark room behind the curtain, and both men were feeling fidgety and slightly lacking in air. Finally, they heard the current act finish, and the MC take to the stage and introduce them.

“And now I’d like to welcome to the stage, a cover band of the brilliant Like of the Conchords, Flight of the Conchords!”

There was scattered applause, and a somewhat confused Bret and Jemaine made their way onto the stage.

“Did he say ‘cover band’?” Bret whispered as they walked up the steps.

“I think he did,” Jemaine whispered back. “Oh,” he added, much louder. “Uh, hello. Everybody.”

The two of them blinked in the face of the harsh overhead lights, Jemaine shielding his eyes from the glare with his hand. There was an anticipatory silence from the surprisingly large audience.

“Right,” Bret said, more to himself than anybody else. He adjusted his guitar strap, then started to strum. Jemaine followed his lead, and soon they were in full swing, music bouncing off the walls of the pub. They were most surprised to see people actually dancing and enjoying the song. Even more surprising, when they finished playing they were greeted with enthusiastic clapping and whistling. Bret and Jemaine exchanged looks of amazement, then Bret addressed the audience.

“We’ve been Flight of the Conchords,” he shouted over the cheers. “Uh, thanks everyone.” He followed Jemaine off stage, back into the little, dimly lit backstage room.

“What just happened?” Jemaine wondered aloud.

“No idea man. They really liked us.” Bret sounded like he was damming a wave of happiness and excitement.

“I think we should have a band meeting,” Jemaine suggested.

“Me too,” Bret agreed.

There followed a few moments of silence whist they waited for the customary role call, before registering that of course, Murray wasn’t around to perform it.

“Bret?” Jemaine tried.

“Here. Jemaine?”

“Yes.”

Somehow, instantly, both men felt a little more comfortable.

“So,” Jemaine started.

“Those people really enjoyed our song, man,” said Bret.

Jemaine looked contemplative. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Bret countered casually. “Last time you asked me that, you were worried we weren’t going to be able to pay the rent and I was thinking about biscuits.”

“Okay,” Jemaine conceded. “How about I tell you what I’m thinking, then you can tell me if you agree with it?”

Bret nodded and shrugged at once.

“I think we should go back to New York,” Jemaine stated, straight to the point. Bret’s reaction was to gape slightly and stare at his friend wordlessly. “Okay, now I’m sure you’re not thinking about biscuits right now. You’re probably thinking about how we got deported last time. That was obviously not good. But we could do it properly this time around. We won’t lose our passports and we won’t overstay our visas. We go to America, find a new manager, and beat our cover band at their own game. Which is supposed to be our game. They hijacked our game and they’re playing it better than us. But we’re going to take it back, and win.” Jemaine finished his speech, looking triumphant.

“I suppose it could work. As long as the game isn’t sudoku. Those are too hard.”

“It’s not a real game, Bret. I was talking about being in a band.”

“I… know.”

“Then do you think we should try it?” Jemaine asked.

“Sure.”

“Good. Let’s go and say goodbye to the sheep.”

*

Two weeks later, Bret and Jemaine had arrived and settled in in New York. With a lack of forward planning, however, they had ended up with nowhere to live, and as a result were staying at a backpacker hostel.

“Interviewing potential band managers is going to be really hard in this dorm room,” Bret observed one morning.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jemaine agreed. “Also, do you know anything about finding band managers? Or interviewing them?”

“No,” Bret had to admit. “Do you?”

“Not really.”

Both men were silent for a few minutes then, thinking through their options.

Bret spoke first. “I suppose we could always -”

“Rehire Murray?” Jemaine finished.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll call him.”

*

“Bret! Jemaine!” Murray’s amiable, excited voice greeted them as they walked into his office. His office which, they couldn’t help but notice, seemed to be a smaller room than before.

“Hi Murray,” Jemaine replied.

“Yeah, hi Murray.”

“Hi guys!” Another voice, distinctly not Murray’s. In fact, quite distinctly that of -

“Mel. Uh, hello?” Bret tried, attempting not to frown.

“Murray,” Jemaine whispered loudly, “what is she doing here?”

“She’s here to welcome you back,” Murray said happily, “aren’t you Mel?”

“Sure am,” Mel said, beaming at the two of them.

“If she’s here to welcome us back,” Bret began, “why is she wearing that shirt?”

Murray just looked confused at that. Jemaine, however, took a moment to register Mel’s t-shirt, which proudly read ‘Like of the Conchords’, and displayed a picture of two young, trendy looking men holding guitars.

“Oh, this was just a precautionary measure,” Mel explained. “I knew you would come back.” With that, she pulled at the front of her shirt, and a strip of fabric peeled away, ‘Like’ coming off and being replaced with ‘Flight’. She then repeated the same action with the heads of the two men on the shirt, Bret and Jemaine’s faces being revealed as a result. Bret raised his eyebrows, and looked about to say something, but Murray spoke before him.

“Okay guys, sit down. Role call. Jemaine?”

“Here.”

Murray smiled. “Bret?”

“Yep.”

“Good. And Murray. Present. Wow, look at us. It’s just like old days.”

Bret and Jemaine tried to match Murray’s enthusiasm, but their grins came out twisted and a little more like grimaces than they intended. Murray hardly seemed to notice.

“Right. Now, I have some ideas. Ideas for the band. Well, an idea anyway. Cover songs! And I know a great song you could cover, too. It’s by another New Zealand band. Oh, what were they called?”

“Crowded House?” Jemaine suggested.

Murray looked confused. “There’s only four of us in here, Jemaine. Although now that you mention it, it is a little crowded. Bret, could you maybe go an stand in the hall for a bit?”

Bret looked somewhat affronted, but stood up and shuffled out into the hallway anyway.

“So,” Murray went on, “this song. Something about rocking the party…”

“That’s our song,” Bret called in from the hall.

“Yeah, that’s our song, Murray,” Jemaine seconded. “We can’t do a cover of a cover.”

Murray appeared to be a little disappointed at that. “I suppose not. That would be quite post modern though, wouldn’t it? Anyway, item number two. Gigs. I’ve got you a gig already!”

Jemaine, who had until that point been ready to nod off in his chair, suddenly perked up. Mel looked excited, and started bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Bret called out, “Really? It’s not going to be at a bank again, is it? Because I don’t think they like live music at banks.”

“No Bret, it’s not at a bank,” Murray assured him. “It’s at a pub. Tomorrow night.”

“Thanks Murray,” Jemaine said, genuinely appreciative.

“Look,” Murray said cheerily, “it’s even been advertised. See?” He pulled out a poster for a pub music night that had their band name printed on it.

“That says ‘ _Fight_ of the Conchords,” Jemaine pointed out.

“Does it?” Murray took back the poster and scanned his eyes across the writing. “Oh. Well, I’m sure it won’t make any difference.”

*

“There’s a lot of really huge, angry men here,” Bret observed. “They look like they’re ready to see a fight.”

“Yeah…” Jemaine said somewhat evasively.

“Look, there’s Mel.”

Jemaine squinted, scouring the crowd for their faithful fan. He finally spotted her squashed between a beefy, overweight bald man, and the bar. They let the curtain fall closed and retreated backstage, where Murray was chatting with the pub owner, who looked only vaguely interested.

They passed the next ten minutes eating M&Ms and tuning their instruments. When the pub owner pushed past them and through the curtains onto the stage to announce them, they stood up and nodded at each other. They could hear the rumble of the confused audience, who were most apparently there for some sort of boxing match or cage fight, and then the announcement of, “So without further ado, here’s Flight of the Conchords!”

Bret looked at Jemaine apprehensively, hearing the cheers of Mel above the general hum of discontent, but Jemaine shoved him forward gently, and he stumbled up the steps and onto the stage. Jemaine followed right behind him.

*

After the show, during which a good portion of the burly, disappointed audience abandoned the pub, Bret and Jemaine stood at the bar drinking lemon water, waiting for Murray to appear with their pay for the gig. While they waited, a suave looking man wearing a pinstripe suit and thick, black rimmed glasses sidled up to them, appearing to come from nowhere amidst the remaining beefy, and now rather drunk, crowd.

“Good gig,” he directed at them.

“Oh,” Bret turned to the man, “thanks.”

“I really like your sound,” the man continued. “Reminds me of a band I heard on You Tube last week. Like of the Conchords, I think they were called.”

“Yeah, they’re a cover band of us,” Jemaine told him.

“Really?” the man said, sounding impressed. “Hey, so my name’s Luke. I own a new bar that’s opening down town later in the week. I was wondering if you cats would like to play the opening night show?”

“Cats?” Bret asked.

“We’d love to,” Jemaine said hastily.

“Sweet. Well here’s my card, I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we can iron out the details.” He passed Bret his business card, then disappeared back into the crowd once again.

*

“This doesn’t really seem like our sort of place,” Jemaine commented as they surveyed the room, which was full of people milling around in super fancy clothing, sipping cocktails.

“Mm,” Bret said absently. “At least he got our name right on the poster.”

“Hey guys!” Murray chirped, walking over to them and clapping Jemaine on the shoulder. “Ready to ‘rock the party’?”

“Sure thing Murray,” Bret replied, groaning inwardly at Murray’s attempt at humour.

“Good-o, because Luke is looking for you. He wants you on stage in five minutes.” With that, Murray left the two of them alone by the wall, and headed backstage.

“Flip,” said Bret. “Five minutes.”

“We should go and get ready.”

And they did just that, scurrying backstage after Murray, leaving the fancily dressed people behind.

A few minutes later, after an introduction that saw them referred to as "the original Like of the Conchords", they were on stage, facing the posh crowd and already sweating under the hot colored lights. Hundreds of eyes looked expectantly up at them. Jemaine plucked a few strings of his bass experimentally, and there were murmurs throughout the audience. Then Bret strummed a loud, eager chord, and a few people whistled and clapped. Encouraged by this, the two of them let their awkwardness regarding the pedigree of the crowd go, and settled in to playing.

After a couple of songs, they were somewhat taken aback when someone in the audience shouted, "Rock the Party!" and they realised it wasn't Mel who made the request. Upon hearing this, a good portion of the audience cheered, and when Bret and Jemaine launched into the song, people were clapping and singing along.

When the show was over, they left the stage to enthusiastic applause. Murray, who had been waiting behind the curtains, congratulated them on a gig well done and then wandered off to collect their fee. Bret and Jemaine put their instruments away before wandering out into the main bar to stand in the corner and observe other people mingling.

While they sipped bottled water and gazed around the room, a middle aged woman with curly blonde hair and a curvaceous figure approached them.

"Hello boys," she said, voice all honey sweet.

Bret looked at the woman, then behind him, confused. Jemaine just stared at her with a blank face.

"My name's Diane."

Jemaine continued to stare at her almost suspiciously, while Bret managed to say, "Hi?"

"I loved your set," Diane told them, smiling.

"Oh," Jemaine finally got out. He looked at Bret then back at Diane. "Thanks."

"So are you two signed?"

"Signed? To a record company? Us?" Bret asked skeptically.

Diane chuckled. "I'll take that as a no," she said.

"Why?" Jemaine said, still eyeing Diane a little suspiciously.

"Oh, we'll since you asked," Diane said, "I head an independent record company. And I may have only heard you play once, but I think you've really got something. I'd love it if you signed on to record an album with me."

Both Bret and Jemaine were silent for a while then. In the end, Jemaine broke the silence.

"Are you serious?" he asked, sounding fairly disbelieving.

"Absolutely," Diane assured. "My recording studio's not far from here, actually. If you want to swing by tomorrow around three o'clock, we could discuss it in more detail. I assume you have a manager?"

"That's Murray," Bret told her. "He'll be really excited when he hears about this."

"Glad to hear it," said Diane. "Here's the studio address." She handed Jemaine a business card. "And I'll see you around three tomorrow."

*

 _Two weeks later_

Bret, Jemaine, Murray and Mel were gathered together in Diane's small but cosy recording studio. Bret and Jemaine stood in front of two microphones, looking a little awkward and unsure. Mel sat with Murray by the control box, throwing irritated glances in the direction of Diane, who was on the other side of the glass with Bret and Jemaine, and appeared to be flirting with them quite profusely. The recording session, their first of the week, was a new experience for the band, and the outrageous flirting was hindering progress somewhat.

"Can we try that one again, from the second verse?" Diane requested.

"Did we get it wrong again?" Jemaine asked.

"Not wrong," said Diane, "just not... right."

"Are we doing another take?" Murray called out.

"This isn't a movie Murray, we don't really have takes," Bret explained.

"Oh."

*

“Well guys, today’s the day,” Murray announced, excitement bubbling in his voice. “The album’s coming out. And I have some good news, too.”

Bret and Jemaine, sat on the other side of Murray’s desk in his tiny office, looked what could only be described as mildly interested at this.

“What is it?” Bret asked him.

“I’ve booked you a tour!” Murray looked very pleased with himself indeed.

“A tour?” Jemaine asked, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“To promote the album,” Murray explained. “You’ll be playing support for a band called Karen and the Babes. They’re English, I think. And quite popular, apparently. So there should be a pretty big turn out for your spots.”

“Wow Murray, thanks,” Bret said sincerely.

Murray smiled brightly at him in response.

*

The first day of the tour approached faster than either Bret or Jemaine were expecting, kicking off in New York just nine days after the album release. They, along with Murray, and Diane, arrived at the venue two hours before the show was set to start, ready to help set up and take part in the sound check. This was when they met Karen and the Babes for the first time.

“Right boys,” Diane started, “I’d like you to meet your hosts for this tour. This is Karen, Matt, and Arthur.”

Bret and Jemaine stood before the three musicians, feeling instantly and absolutely inferior. They looked like a proper band.

“Hello,” Jemaine said to them, waving a little.

“Hey,” Matt replied, nodding his head. His floppy brown hair fell forward over his forehead, and he pushed it back casually.

Bret fidgeted and stared for probably too long at Karen, who had long red hair and was wearing a rather short skirt. She smiled at him, and he started. Arthur, who was watching this, let out a quiet snort of a laugh.

“Matt,” Arthur said then, “can you come and help me with the keys?”

Matt and Arthur wandered away, leaving Karen with Bret and Jemaine.

“I’m going to sound really rude,” Karen said, “but I have to admit I haven’t listened to your album yet. What sort of music do you guys play?”

Bret had settled back into staring wordlessly at Karen, so Jemaine took the reins. “Uh,” he began, “it’s sort of… guitar-based digi-bongo a cappella-rap-funk comedy folk.”

“… Wow.”

“Bret! Jemaine!” Murray’s voice filtered through from somewhere backstage.

“We need to go,” Jemaine told Karen, and she nodded, understanding. Jemaine shoved Bret lightly, and he blinked a few times, the parts of the room that weren’t Karen coming back into focus. Then Jemaine grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him up to the stage and behind the curtain.

*

“That went pretty awesome,” Bret commented after show number three.

“The first two were pretty awesome too,” Jemaine added.

“Yeah man.”

“Well done guys!” Murray congratulated, appearing by the couch the two of them were sitting on. “Are you ready to go out and sell some merchandise?”

“Is there anyone actually waiting to buy it?” Bret asked.

“There’s a big group of women, and -”

Not needing to hear anything else, Jemaine stood up quickly, Bret following suit. They walked briskly to the merchandise stall, hearing the music of Karen and the Babes echoing throughout the theatre as they went. They were a little surprised, despite Murray having told them, to see a large crowd gathered near the stall, mostly composed of women. When they slipped past the group and into the stall, some of the women in the queue squealed and started waving their money over their heads. While they signed CDs for their new fans, Bret spotted Mel at the back of the group, attempting to push through to them, but failing. She looked distinctly annoyed.

“Mel doesn’t look very happy,” Jemaine murmured to Bret.

Bret shrugged. “Who cares, man. This is cool.”

*

The tour wound down several weeks later, the last show being an encore appearance in New York. The day after the gig, Bret and Jemaine visited Murray at his office for a band meeting, where Murray presented them with some more interesting news.

“Bret, Jemaine. Great news today,” he chirped, tapping his pencil against his notepad repeatedly as he spoke.

“Mm?” Jemaine grunted.

“I’ve got you a TV spot. Well, they called me. I didn’t really have much to do with it. But I did say ‘yes’ when they put the idea forward. So that’s something, right?” Murray looked hopeful.

Ignoring this, Bret asked, “What’s the TV show?”

Murray’s face fell a little, but he said, “It’s a talk show, Troy and Abed in the Morning. They want to chat to you about overnight success.”

*

In the green room of the television studio, Jemaine sat by himself, picking at the label on his bottle of water. Murray wandered into the room from the hallway.

“Have you seen Bret? Jemaine, have you seen Bret?”

Jemaine looked to the empty seat next to him, then up to Murray. “No?”

“Oh…”

“Why?”

“I just ran into the producer. He said Bret made some sort of strange request and wasn’t going to go on set unless they could fulfil it.”

Jemaine raised an eyebrow, but shrugged, wordless.

“Okay, well if you see him, let him know they’re working on finding the straw.” That said, Murray turned around and exited the room, leaving a mildly confused Jemaine in his wake.

It wasn’t long before the green room door opened again, and Bret came in looking disgruntled.

“Murray was looking for you,” Jemaine said in lieu of a proper greeting.

“Uh-huh.”

“Something about a straw?”

Bret turned on him. “What about it? Did they find it?”

“I… don’t know,” Jemaine trailed.

Bret huffed and flopped down on the couch beside him, arms folded and frown set in place. “I need that straw.”

“What straw?”

“I need a curly straw. A green curly straw. With four bends.”

Jemaine studied his friend for a moment, before taking a chance and asking, “Why?”

“Because musicians make those sorts of demands, man. I was reading about it the other day.”

Jemaine just stared at Bret in such a way as to suggest Bret had lost his mind, and neither of them said another word until the producer entered the room, brandishing a green, four-bend curly straw. He passed it to Bret, expression a mixture of annoyed and relieved when Bret accepted it and shoved it into a glass of orange juice.

“Alright,” the producer said, “they’re almost ready for you. Two minutes, guys.” He shuffled out of the room again, leaving Bret and Jemaine to ready themselves to go on set.

Bret drained his orange juice, then said, “Pulp. Yuck. I’m going to make sure they give me pulp-free next time.”

“Next… time?” Jemaine mumbled, mostly to himself.

Bret stood up at that point, and swooped out of the room and down the hall, towards the set. Jemaine blinked heavily, then got up from his seat and left too, trying to catch up.

*

“I think that went well this morning,” Murray said, swivelling slightly in his desk chair. “Don’t you?”

“It was fine, I guess.” Bret shrugged.

“Did you see Mel?” asked Jemaine. “She didn’t look too happy.”

“I didn’t really notice,” Bret replied. “But there were some pretty hot women there. And they seemed to like us a lot.”

“Well that’s positive,” said Murray. “But the reason I called you guys here for this meeting is I have even more good news.”

“What is it this time?” Jemaine wanted to know. Bret was filing his nails, and seemed more concerned with that than what was going on.

“I’ve had a phone call from an advertising agency,” Murray began, “and guess what? They’d like you guys to promote a product!”

“What’s the product then?” asked Jemaine, tone a little wary.

“Oh, it’s a underwear brand,” Murray told him. “They told me they’re going for a ‘geek chic’ look, whatever that means. They think you two would be perfect.”

“Underwear?”

“What do you think?”

“Underwear?” Jemaine repeated.

“Look, I organised a meeting with the agency’s junior partner for tomorrow afternoon. He can tell you the details. What do you say?”

“I don’t -”

“And Bret?” Murray interrupted.

Bret looked up at him and shrugged lazily, using only one shoulder.

Murray beamed at them both. “Great!”

*

The advertising agency building was a huge structure, one of any city’s typical sky scrapers. Murray lead the way up the stairs to the revolving door at the entrance, and the three of them walked on through.

“Richard’s office is on the twelfth floor,” Murray reminded them. “Let’s take the lift.”

They did so, and the ride to the twelfth floor was spent with Murray his usual cheery self, Jemaine looking fairly apprehensive, and Bret just staring blankly at the doors. They located the right office without much trouble, and when Murray knocked they waited only moments before they were greeted by an attractive young man in a suit, with slicked back hair and a lit cigarette.

“Come in,” he welcomed them. Then, once they were all three inside, he added, “I’m Richard. Pleased to meet you.” He took a puff of his cigarette, which was almost completely smoked, and pulled another from his pocket, lighting it off the flame at the end of his current one.

“Hello Richard,” Murray said. “I’m Murray. We spoke on the phone yesterday. And this is the band. Jemaine, and Bret. Say hello guys.”

“Hello,” Jemaine said.

“Yeah, hi,” Bret agreed.

“So we hear you want to sell some underwear,” prompted Murray.

“Indeed we do,” Richard replied, sucking heavily on his new cigarette. “And you are just the type of guys we’re looking for.” He exhaled, and smoke billowed out of his mouth. He then proceeded to tell them all about the planned photo shoot, and what it would involve on their part. At the end of his speech, he lit a third cigarette from the butt of the second one, and allowed Murray, Jemaine and Bret to chime in. “So what do you all think?”

*

“Look, there’s your billboard!” Murray cried excitedly.

He, Bret and Jemaine were walking down the street towards the consulate building, when he noticed the new billboard advert for the underwear Bret and Jemaine now promoted. He stopped in his tracks and pointed up at it, and much to Bret and Jemaine’s dismay, several people on the street around them also stopped to look where Murray was pointing.

“Okay,” Jemaine said, ushering Murray forward towards the building, “let’s go inside now.”

But it was too late. Several girls quite close by looked up at the billboard, then at them, and screamed joyfully. One of them shoved her hand into her bag and pulled out a magazine, which she flipped through quickly, stopping on a particular page. Then the group of girls approached Bret and Jemaine nervously, and held the magazine out to them. They looked down and saw another advert for the underwear featuring them, in lush full colour.

“H-hi,” the girl holding the magazine stammered. “Could you s-sign this for me?”

Bret gazed down at the ad, seeing himself in nothing but his underpants, and scratched his head self consciously.

“Go on,” Murray encouraged.

Jemaine took the magazine and a pen from the girl, and scribbled his name next to his image. Bret did the same straight after. The girls thanked them, and hurried away, talking happily amongst themselves as they left.

*

A phone call interrupted the next band meeting in the middle of Murray’s role call. Murray apologised and picked up the phone, voice changing from normal to rather excited as the conversation unfolded. All Bret and Jemaine could hear were his responses to the caller, and so had no idea what might be going on until Murray hung up and said, “Well. That was the manager of Karen and the Babes. He said he and the band were quite impressed with us during the last tour, and would we like to come and support them on another one, in Britain.”

At that, Bret’s interest in the proceedings increased tenfold. “Let’s do it,” he said instantly.

“Jemaine?” Murray asked.

Jemaine shrugged. “Sure.”

“Brilliant,” said Murray, clapping his hands together. “Now we have to pay for half of your flights to England, but the CD’s been selling so well we can actually afford that.”

From then on, the band meeting turned into a planning session for the trip to England, which was scheduled for a month’s time.

*

“Miss!” A flight attendant strode down the aisle between seats on the plane. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to return to the economy cabin.”

Mel, who had been creeping through business class towards Bret and Jemaine’s seats, frowned and retreated to her seat in economy.

*

The first of their shows with Karen and the Babes was in London, two days after their arrival.

The night of the gig, at the venue, Bret paced impatiently in the backstage area. Jemaine couldn’t figure out what was going on, as Karen, Matt and Arthur were all relaxed and playing some sort of card game in one corner, and they themselves weren’t due on stage for at least another twenty minutes.

Things became a little clearer, however, when two roadies burst into the room carrying a giant biscuit, bigger than his head, and in the shape of a bird. They presented it to Bret, who immediately stopped pacing, but said curtly, “And the juice?”

“On its way,” one of the roadies replied.

“Pulp-free,” said the other, because it looked like Bret might ask.

Bret nodded once, and took the bird biscuit from them, then sat down to await his juice.

*

The next night, Bret sat apart from the others backstage, waiting. When a roadie came into view balancing a intricate little gingerbread house on a tray, Bret called him over. Over the course of the night, Bret slowly pulled the house to bits, eating it piece by piece.

*

Gig number three saw the first appearance of fans backstage. Much to Jemaine’s surprise, however, those that came backstage to see the band were there for them, not Karen and the Babes. Karen, Matt and Arthur hardly seemed to notice or care though, and continued on drinking, chatting and playing cards like normal.

Mel was one of the girls who came to see them, but she was pushed aside by some rather more forceful female fans who were all trying to talk to Bret. In the end she fell back and stood next to Jemaine whilst the girls chatted to Bret and shared his gingerbread house.

*

The fourth show came and went much the same as the previous three. Bret listed a strange demand on the rider which was met once again. This time he ordered a full body massage in his dressing room, and requested that the backstage area was set up according to the principles of feng shui, or else he wouldn’t go on stage.

And again several fans were allowed backstage to see them. Mel wasn’t among them.

*

On night five, Bret demanded a chocolate sculpture in the shape of the Eiffel tower, which was denied him due to lack of preparation time. Jemaine tried to console him after the news that he wouldn’t be receiving his tower, but Bret told Jemaine that his voice was disturbing the air around him, and asked him to please go away.

On the invitation of Jemaine, Mel arrived backstage again after the show. Over the course of the band’s rise to fame, Jemaine had noticed Mel getting pushed aside more and more often by fans even more enthusiastic than she. He had also noticed Bret becoming gradually more self involved, and his increasingly outrageous backstage demands and flippant behaviour were getting on Jemaine’s nerves. So he planned to discuss these things with Mel.

While Bret was getting mobbed by fans, Jemaine snuck away with Mel, and the started to talk.

“What’s going on, Jemaine?”

“It’s nothing. Well, it’s something. I’m sorry Mel.”

Mel cocked her head to one side. “What for?”

“For all the new fans.”

“You can’t help them, Jemaine. Although they have been driving me crazy”

Jemaine nodded slowly. Then he blurted out, “Bret’s driving _me_ crazy.”

“Why?” asked Mel.

So Jemaine explained to her all about Bret’s growing self interest and ridiculous, verging on diva, demands. When he was done, Mel wrapped him in a gentle hug, lacking all of her usual over the top enthusiasm and vague creepiness. Then she pulled back and said, “I have an idea.”

She relayed it to Jemaine, who nodded along all the while. “Do you think it’ll work?” he asked.

Mel bit her lip. “I want to believe.”

*

Before the next gig, Bret was occupying himself by lounging in what was, for all intents and purposes, a throne, wearing a crown, and drinking pulp-free orange juice from a goblet through a green curly straw with exactly four bends. Jemaine positioned himself nearby, and launched into phase one of Mel’s plan - loud fake coughing.

“Are you okay man?” Bret asked him, although he didn’t sound like he really cared all that much.

Jemaine coughed some more, then rasped out, “I d-don’t think so. I’ve lost my voice. I can’t sing.”

And just like that, the rest of their tour support spots were cancelled. Bret, Jemaine, Murray and Mel returned to New York, and phase one of Mel’s plan was complete.

*

Phase two was more complicated, and Mel was in charge of seeing it through.

One morning not long after their return to America, she made a phone call to a New York gossip magazine. The call was taken on the fourth ring.

“Hello, Rachel speaking. How may I help you?”

“Hi,” Mel said in her most professional sounding voice. “My name is Lucy Bailey, and I’m the manager of the band Like of the Conchords. I have a possible story for you.”

“I’m listening…” Rachel trailed off.

“Well, as I said, I manage Like of the Conchords. They’re an up-and-coming band from New Zealand. Now, you may have heard of another band, Flight of the Conchords?“

“I have, yes.”

“I thought so. So here’s a story for you. They have been stealing material from my band and passing it off as their own,” Mel stated. “My boys released an album last year. Flight of the Conchords only released their album this year. You do the math.”

“I see…” There was the sound of typing from the other end of the line. Then, “Oh, well, you’re certainly right about that. It does look like Flight have been recording Like’s songs and getting famous for them. I think we definitely have a story here. After all, Flight of the Conchords are terribly popular right now. Can I just ask you a couple of questions?”

Rachel interviewed Mel for a few minutes, jotting down her responses as they talked. She finished the call by saying, “The article about this should be in next week’s issue. Keep an eye out. Thanks for calling!”

Mel, satisfied with this, thanked Rachel too, and hung up.

*

True to her word, Rachel’s article appeared in print just three days later. The backlash was almost instantaneous. Within a week, Murray had received a pile of hand written letters and several dozen emails from fans, angry at the band for betraying them by stealing material.

“This one’s really harsh,” Bret said meekly, eyes scanning a letter. “She goes on for three pages about what scum we are. Lots of swearing. And she’s signed it ‘your former fan’.”

“This one just says, ‘you suck, and I hate you’,” Jemaine read out.

Murray clicked through his emails, pulling faces at some of the messages, deleting them as he went.

“This is stupid,” Jemaine said after a while, crumpling up the letter he was holding and tossing it in the trash. “But I have an idea.” Phase three of Mel’s plan was about to be put in place.

“An idea?” Murray asked. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“I think we should play a farewell gig. But not a real farewell gig. One like John Farnham, where he just kept coming back and playing more shows in the future. And it‘ll be a free concert, outdoors, so anyone can come. We play some songs that aren’t on Like of the Conchords’ CD. It might salvage our reputation.”

Bret and Murray considered his proposal, and eventually decided that yes, it did seem like a good idea. So Murray made a couple of phone calls, organising a place and time for the gig. Jemaine, meanwhile, sent an email to Like of the Conchords, inviting them to come on stage at the show for a bit of a battle of the bands.

*

The evening of the fake farewell gig arrived, and Bret and Jemaine took to the stage to varied response. Some of the audience cheered and clapped loudly, and others booed them as they walked on.

As they played, choosing a careful mix of songs they were known for, as well as new ones, Murray stood in a dark corner to the side of the stage, watching them perform.

“’ello,” a gruff man’s voice said, and Murray whipped around to see who had spoken. A man as rough looking as his voice indicated he might be stood before Murray, wearing a big coat, his hands in his pockets.

“Hi there,” Murray chirped, although there was a slight touch of nervousness to his tone. “I’m Murray, the band manager.”

“Walter’s my name,” the gruff man said. “Can I help you out at all?”

Murray frowned, confused. “I don’t need any help. I’m just watching the band. Thank you.”

“No,” Walter said, “I mean, is there anything I can get for you? I’ve got quite a… stash.” He emphasised the words stash, eyebrows arching, hoping Murray would get his meaning.

Murray’s surprised and somewhat mortified look told Walter that he had in fact got his message across. “No, I won’t be purchasing any drugs today,” Murray informed him, probably speaking a little louder than was necessary. Walter grunted and wandered away.

As Murray turned his attention back to the show, he was just in time to see two men who weren’t Bret and Jemaine run up onto the stage holding guitars.

“Hey, what -” Bret started to say, but he was cut off by Jemaine playing a complicated bass riff.

The newcomer with a bass repeated the riff and added his own ending. Following that, the other guitarist picked out a fast paced melody on his instrument. Then all three of them, plus the suddenly silent audience, looked expectantly at Bret. In the end he realised what they wanted, and he strummed something completely improvised in retaliation. What followed was a duelling scenario, in which they each took it in turns to try and outplay the other band.

The audience, who had been silent for a while by then, suddenly started making some noise again when a single woman from near the front screamed, “Like of the Conchords! Come on!” And as other people joined in the charge, cheering for Like of the Conchords too, Mel stopped yelling, and smiled.

Angry, worked up audience members soon began to throw things at the stage. Empty plastic bottles went flying through the air and bounced off amplifiers and the edge of he stage. Then a still full bottle arced towards them, and connected squarely with Bret’s head. Mel gasped, Murray yelped, the audience quietened down, and Bret dropped to the stage like a dead weight, all at once.

*

Bret woke up in a bed with crisp, white sheets, surrounded by Jemaine, Murray and Mel.

“What… happened?” he murmured. “Where am I?”

“You’re in hospital,” Mel told him calmly.

And Jemaine answered his other question by pulling that day’s newspaper off the bed side table and handing it to him, open to page 16, where an article was headlined, ‘Riot at fraud band’s farewell gig sees musician in hospital’.

Bret skim-read the article, then looked up at the others, still looking worried. “There was a riot? We played a farewell show? People actually came? What’s going on?”

Jemaine, Mel and Murray exchanged glances, realising slowly that Bret seemed not the remember anything that had happened.

“Bret,” Murray tried, “Diane called to make sure you were okay.”

“Who’s Diane?”

“She owns the record label you guys signed to.”

Bret stared at Murray with wide eyes. “What?”

“Do you remember a photo shoot for an underwear commercial?” Jemaine asked.

“Uh,” Bret said. “No?”

“That’s probably for the best, actually,” Jemaine told him, “you were very self conscious about those ads.”

“I’m really confused,” Bret admitted.

“It’s okay Bret,” Mel soothed. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I remember New Zealand. I remember hearing a song on the radio while we were out in the paddocks. Our song, but not us singing. We sung at an open mic night, I think, and people actually enjoyed it. Then I’ve got nothing.”

“Oh dear,” Murray said sadly.

“You know what,” Jemaine said, trying not to smile outwardly, “it doesn’t matter that much.”

Bret stared around at the other three for a while, trying to figure out what was going on, but failing to garner any information from them. Eventually he just sighed and said, “Can we go home now? I miss Terrence.”


End file.
